


It's all fire and brimstone, baby

by canadianwheatpirates



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crossroads Demon, Blood Bond, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Nobody Actually Dies, canon divergent - Decima never happens, demon!Root, it just has a super deathy vibe there for a while, offscreen canon-typical torture, ritual self-harm, shoot week 2017, unsafe depictions of blood magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 17:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11018268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadianwheatpirates/pseuds/canadianwheatpirates
Summary: “Some saw the sudden illness and death as some form of possession – the devil inside Samantha finally overpowering her and her whole family – and a small party laid her to rest at the crossroads outside of town with a stake through her heart. Many believe that she still resides at that crossroads as a demon who waits for the bold or the desperate to call upon her.”Shaw summons a crossroads demon. It goes as well as you would expect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Though their first interactions are while Shaw is growing up, Root doesn’t make any kind of pass at her until she’s an adult; if the age gap between an immortal being and a human squicks you, maybe steer clear. 
> 
> Hat tip to [favvnsongs](http://favvnsongs.tumblr.com/tagged/crau) on tumblr for making me love the concept of the crossroads AU, though this iteration is quite different in feel (and, y'know, not clexa).
> 
> Updates fortnightly around 12:30pm Saturdays NZT. Title is from “The Mission” by Puscifer.

 

Sameen Shaw is nine years old when she first hears the tale of Samantha Groves.

Her family had arrived in Bishop no more than a month ago, her father on some manoeuvre or other; she and her mother had made quick work of integrating into the local community. As usual, Shaw has no need of friends, but she gets along well enough with the neighbours to play with their dog most afternoons.

It would be easy to brush the whole thing off as just another Halloween myth, this time with a local twist, but she notices a general shuffling and murmuring among the older members of the crowd as the tale is told. Their unease is clear, standing out strongly against the lightness of their attitude towards the other stories of ghouls and ghosts and horrors; she’s observant enough to see _how_ people react even if she may not fathom _why_. She manages to coax the full version of the legend out of her elderly trick-or-treating chaperone, though she’s sternly warned not to use it to scare the other children.

It goes like this:

_A hundred years ago, in this very town, there lived a girl named Samantha Groves. Her mother was a sickly woman, incapable of keeping up a home, and her father by all accounts had a fearsome temper. Sharp as a blade’s edge, she was, precocious, always seeming to know too much about the goings-on of her neighbours’ private lives. Worse, she could always be caught drifting off in church; the only thing that ever caught her attention was a good hellfire and brimstone sermon. She would drive away the other girls her age with piercing looks and sharp questions about their deepest secrets, preferring instead to squirrel herself away behind books in the town library. Often, her father would be called to carry her home, having fallen asleep down in the stacks._

_One grim winter night her father kicked his way urgently into the doctor’s house, begging that he come at once; his wife and only daughter were sick with some terrible illness. Though the pair arrived as soon as they could, Samantha had already passed and his wife was rapidly following. He sobbed out his goodbyes before collapsing at her bedside; he too was suddenly delirious and feverish. Come morning, the family and doctor were all found dead inside. Scratch marks covered the inside of the door as though the doctor had tried desperately to escape before dying at the threshold._

_Though the parents and doctor were well buried, the townsfolk could not see fit to set Samantha in consecrated ground. Some saw the sudden illness and death as some form of possession – the devil inside Samantha finally overpowering her and her whole family – and a small party laid her to rest at the crossroads outside of town with a stake through her heart. Since then, there have been occasional disturbances in the town; proud folks suddenly cowed, deaths, madness, evil men gloating over their evil gains. Many believe that she still resides at that crossroads as a demon who waits for the bold or the desperate to call upon her._

“In _my_ opinion, there ain’t an evil thing in this town that can’t be traced back to Sam Groves. She’s the root of it all” the woman finishes, and Shaw nods thoughtfully.

 

Days later, over breakfast, she asks, “Maman, do you think it’s true what they say about that girl? The crossroads djinni?”

There’s the kind of pause that means her mother is taking a moment to compose a proper answer. Across the table, her father takes a sip of coffee.

“She doesn’t _sound_ like a djinni, does she?” he asks, his expression open and sincere. Shaw frowns and shakes her head. The scrape of a knife across a piece of toast signals that her mother is ready to speak.

“I don’t know if it’s true,” she says, “but I do know that these people left their demons behind when their families first came here over the sea. Without anything to blame for evil actions, towns like this often make their own.”

 

Two weeks after she first learns about Samantha Groves, Shaw finds herself lying awake; she turns everything she’s heard over and over in her mind, staring at her dark ceiling and pondering. Eventually, curiosity and frustration get the better of her. Armed with stories and armoured with her heaviest winter coat, she steals out of her bedroom window and sets off to find a demon.

She makes good time over the two and a half miles to the crossroads in question, arriving in just over an hour. Empty plains stretch out around her as far as she can see and she curls inwards against the crisp November air. Casting around for somewhere to sit, she spots a rock at the roadside and sets herself down on it. She isn’t entirely sure what to do from here; children’s books aren’t exactly known for their accurate depictions of devil summonings. Drawing her knees up to her chest and placing her torch down beside her to light the area, she examines her options as she runs her hand over the rough stone. There are a few common threads in all the stories: a name, an intention, and blood. Few have all of them, presumably to guard against the foolish; _or maybe just the people who can’t read between the lines_ , she thinks, and a plan falls together in front of her.

Breathing deeply, she raps her knuckles against the rock, hard; two of them split open and begin to bleed slightly, smearing across it.

“Samantha Groves?” she calls into the dark. Immediately, a form coalesces out of the shadows, stepping into the area lit by the torch. Shaw squints at her tiredly; she’s tall, her hair falls in elegant curls across her shoulders, and her eyes are black on black like the deepest parts of the ocean. Few things manage to make Shaw feel small despite her diminutive size, but Samantha is definitely among them. She catches a hint of something acrid, possibly smoke, on the breeze.

“Hi there,” the woman says. There’s a flicker of surprise in her expression before she settles back into a menacing smirk. It doesn’t seem like Shaw is the first kid to call on her.

“They call you the root of all evil in this town,” she says passively. The woman – demon? – cocks her head and grins wider.

“Do they? I’m flattered, though I can’t claim credit for all the sinful things they do,” she drawls. “Call me Root for short. What’s your name, kiddo?”

“Shaw. Can you help me?”

“For a price.” She steps closer, the wind ruffling her open coat. Her voice lowers. “What do you want?”

Shaw’s expression hardens. Grabbing her torch and getting down from her perch on the rock, she draws herself up to her full four foot one.

“There’s a bully at my school,” she spits, “Amanda. She picks on people smaller than her – not me ‘cause I beat her up when she did, but the others – and none of them can stand up to her. I can’t make her leave them alone because she avoids me. Make her stop.”

“Amanda…” Root sounds intrigued. “And what do you have to offer me?”

That was the other thing the stories had mentioned: payment. Shaw fishes around in her coat pockets and pulls out a canine tooth.

“I thought you wouldn’t take money, so I brought you this. It fell out last week.”

Root walks over to her and holds out a hand.

“Shake on it?” she grins. It bleeds deviant glee, malevolence, excitement. Shaw solemnly shakes her hand and drops the tooth into her outstretched palm. Locking eyes with Root, she swears she sees a glimpse of fire deep in them. She pulls away and start to head for home; her steps drag with a sudden exhaustion, a combination of the late hour and freezing air.

“Amanda won’t bother you or the others anymore,” Root calls after her. “I promise.”

Shaw turns back one last time. “Promises are overrated.” With that, she trudges off into the night. Root smiles and bounces on the balls of her feet a couple of times before setting off into town, whistling and trailing twenty silent paces behind the child.

 

Shaw doesn’t remember arriving home when she wakes up the next day, though the splits on her two first knuckles prove that her escapade was more than a dream. To her surprise, Amanda says nothing to anyone at school except some whispered apologies as she passes her victims in the corridor. When she sees Shaw, their gazes meet in a wordless exchange; she has the harrowed look of someone who desperately hopes that their experiences weren’t real, the same expression as worn by car crash survivors and war veterans. Shaw blinks once and keeps walking.

It’s simpler to let Amanda keep pretending it was just a nightmare.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Rain rattles down on the dented roof of the car. It’s late, edging close to curfew, but Shaw keeps her foot on the accelerator regardless. The visibility is terrible; she squints and wonders if she’s overshot her destination. Around her the storm rages until, all at once, it… doesn’t. She peers into the rearview mirror and sees a wall of rain, the edge of the clouds marked out starkly by the wet ground.

The crossroads looms just ahead. It hasn’t changed since she first saw it as a child; what details she can pick out of the darkness and the haze of memory match up perfectly, down to the slant of the nearby fence posts and the green of the unpicked corn. It’s strange how a place so transient, so _liminal_ , manages to remain so steadfast against the passage of time.

She slows to a halt and cuts the engine, leaving the headlights on as a protective circle against the night. Striding out into the intersection, she draws her trusty pocketknife and nicks the heel of her hand; the spatter of blood on the road is lost in her shadow.

“Root!” she yells.

“Hello Shaw,” Root says from over her shoulder. “Need something?”

“No, I thought I’d just drop in and say hi,” Shaw deadpans in response. She sucks on the cut; it stings a little, but that’s about the extent of the damage. After a moment it becomes obvious that Root isn’t going to move, and Shaw turns to look at her. She’s sitting on a nearby fence, idly swinging a leg as she regards Shaw. The height casts her eyes in shadow; while Shaw suspects that they’re jet-black, she isn’t about to get closer to check.

“Got nothing better to do on a Saturday night?” Root asks wryly. Like the crossroads itself, she shows no sign of change. The smell of smoke is back, and this time Shaw can pick out the undertones she’d missed before: incense, leather, sulfur. She frowns and reminds herself why she’d come.

“Fine. It’s that asshole, Mr Stevenson, my bio teacher. He scores all the girls in his accelerated class way lower than they deserve over stupid shit. Fix it,” she demands.

Root raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. The tap of her boot heel against the fence underscores the silence. Shaw glares at her, waiting for a response.

“Is that it?” Root finally asks.

Shaw’s brow furrows. “Yes.”

“Tch. Where’s your _ambition_ , Shaw?” Root slips down off the fence, landing silently and advancing on her. “I could do much more than just fix your bio teacher. You could be in college tomorrow if you asked.”

“What about the others?”

“What about them?”

Shaw scowls. “All the girls in my class are getting screwed over. I can’t just hang them out to dry.”

“Sure you can.” Root still has more than half a foot on her, despite Shaw’s much-needed junior year growth spurt; in her heeled boots, she towers over Shaw. Their eyes meet, brown staring unwaveringly into black, and after a long moment Shaw shakes her head.

“I won’t,” she says. She may be many things – broken, heartless, indifferent at best – but she isn’t a traitor. Integrity stands at the core of her moral compass, the first thing her parents had taught her (well, that and honesty, but she’d never had trouble with the latter). Achievements are worth nothing if you step on the backs of others to reach them, she knows; she also knows that Root wouldn’t care either way. It irks her, sometimes, the way she has these _things_ that she can never put words to-

A long suffering sigh brings her back to the conversation at hand.

“If you really can’t be tempted…” Root says. “What’s your offer?”

Shaw reaches up and slices off the front lock of her hair, the bit too short to be pulled back into her utilitarian plait.

“Make my bio teacher stop mis-grading his classes. _Nothing more,_ ” she adds, determined to make sure that Root doesn’t go too far.

Root reaches out and then pauses, appraising the deal. Frustrated, Shaw waves her hand.

“You took my baby tooth, didn’t you?” she presses. Nodding, Root takes the lock of hair from her.

“Done.” She shoves it into her pocket and strides past Shaw towards the edge of the circle.

“Wait,” Shaw says, turning to follow her movement. “One more thing. A question.”

“Answer for an answer,” Root replies enigmatically, pausing and looking back over her shoulder. Shaw rolls her eyes at the weak attempt at a mind-game.

“Alright. You were buried as a kid. Why are you… not?” Shaw asks, gesturing vaguely. Root laughs, surprised.

“Most people don’t think to comment. This is what I am – or, well, what I would have been.” She turns to face Shaw, smirks, and takes a step back; the dark all but swallows her.

“What’s the rest of your name, Shaw?”

Too late, Shaw remembers the boasts of her two irritating goth classmates; one of them had been them ribbing the other for giving his “true name” to the “ghost” on the other end of a Ouija board, claiming that it was going to _possess_ him or something because of it. Given that he’d since failed to go all Exorcist in the middle of class, she’d brushed the whole thing off as the pair of them just trying to scare themselves.

_Shit._

Shaw glances around reflexively. There’s no way to flee the situation; Root’s fulfilled her end of the bargain already, so retracting the offer isn’t an option. If she refuses to answer, Root will almost certainly torture it out of her. _All in all, better to avoid the pain._

“Sameen,” she admits, “Sameen Shaw.”

Root radiates disbelief.

“No middle name?” she asks, a dangerous undertone in her voice.

“Parents never bothered.”

Shrugging, Root says, “Alright then. Until next time, _Sameen Shaw_.”

Involuntarily, Shaw takes a step forward at the sound of her name. She glowers defiantly at Root, chin held high, refusing to give in to the power play. There’s a flash of a grin, Root’s teeth a stark white in the faint light; the grass stirs and the next thing Shaw knows, she’s gone.

 

Third period biology on Monday sees a haggard-looking Mr Stevenson – please, call him Jack – stagger into the classroom. Gripped in his hands are the class’s midterm tests; Shaw spots her handwriting on the top page of the stack, along with a “B-” scribbled out and carefully amended to an “A+”. His pinstriped shirt has come untucked and one set of shoelaces trail behind him.

“It has, uh, come to my attention,” he stammers as he leans on the desk at the front, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes with a free hand, “that I may have been... less than fair to some of you regarding your marks for this class. I’ve already regraded the affected papers and I swear that any previous issues will no longer impact my assessment of your work.”

Shaw gazes on impassively as the rest of the class buzzes with surprise and excitement. Drumming her fingers on the desk, she wonders whether the exchange was worth it. Giving up her name to Root has thrown the risks of her deals into sharp relief; she’s not afraid, of course, but she knows she can’t afford to be so cavalier anymore. _Emergencies only, then,_ she muses, keeping half an eye on the lesson at hand. Across the room, Stevenson suddenly yelps and drops his whiteboard marker, eyes wide and hands shaking. She smiles ever so slightly.

_At least someone got what they deserved._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr (canadianwheatpirates) and rec me songs for the crossroads au playlist! I need things to listen to while I write this that aren't the goddamn Danse Macabre.


	3. Chapter 3

Blood snakes down Shaw’s wrist, dripping lazily onto the parched ground. The desert has swallowed her shout like it swallows bleached bones and ancient cities and now here she stands, old scar reopened, waiting.

Calling this place a crossroads is generous at best, but it’s the best she can do under the circumstances. Two rutted dirt roads crash together at an awkward, skewed angle; under the shifting mirage of the hot air they’re almost indiscernible from the surrounding landscape. Occasional patches of scrub dot the ground, spitefully surviving against all odds, yet beyond that there’s nothing to be seen except the horizon.

Seconds blur into minutes under the relentless afternoon sun.

There’s no certainty that calling on Root will even _work_ out here. She’s seven thousand miles away from home, and she doesn’t even know if summoning her at the next road over would have worked. It’s not exactly something she’d been inclined to experiment with; Root still has her name, after all. Even when she’d been thrown out of med school she’d sat at the crossroads for hours, the only sound the _plink_ of the engine cooling, before finally eschewing revenge and setting her sights on the army instead.

Taking the high road is unsatisfying sometimes.

She glares down at the bloodstained earth, willing something to happen. By rights she should be with the rescue team right now, doing her _job_ , not parked up at some secluded intersection waiting on supernatural help. Realistically, she knows they have a tiny chance of success against the stronghold they’ll be assaulting; she’s weighed the risks and rewards and the one-man difference is a worthwhile trade for the chance that she can get Root to intervene. It’s all or nothing now.

There’s a shift in the air pressure - not enough to make hear ears pop but nonetheless noticeable - and she looks up to see Root standing in front of her.

“Long time no see, Shaw,” she says nonchalantly, wiping her forehead. She shrugs out of her winter coat, revealing a singlet and jeans, and drops it behind her; it smoulders where it touches the ground, crumbling to ash. Her gaze lands on Shaw’s rank insignia for a moment and the ghost of a smirk flashes across her face before she settles on a frown, looking out at the barren countryside.

“Well this explains why me so long to find you,” she mutters, disgruntled.

“I want you to rescue the Marines trapped in the fortified warehouse thirty miles east of here,” Shaw tells her, her tone clipped; she’s already wasted enough time. Her brusqueness must hit a nerve, as Root pouts in response. She seems to recover swiftly, though, giving Shaw a condescending smile.

“Still so small minded, Shaw. You know you and I could cut a red sw-”

“No red swathe cutting. It’s not my call to make and I doubt you want me to turn you over to the U.S. Army command,” Shaw retorts, already bored. Root doesn’t stop smiling, but something shifts in her expression at the threat. Quickly, Shaw tries to placate her, acutely aware of the danger she poses.

“Look, you can kill as many of the captors as you want, I don’t give a fuck, they’re enemy combatants and if you don’t then our boys probably will. Just get my fuckin’ men out unhurt.”

Root nods. In offer, Shaw pulls her dog tags off over her head and holds them out, the chain wrapped around her hand.

“A non-biological sacrifice with zero sentimental value? Please,” Root says with poorly concealed contempt. “I’m a long way from home, Sameen; you’re gonna have to do better than that if you want me to have any kind of power here.” Her gaze slides from the dog tags down to Shaw’s bloodstained wrist.

Shaw knows she keeps a neutral expression when Root calls her by her first name, but her heart rate still picks up in readiness to fight or flee; Root smiles at her like she can hear it. She slips the chain back on, frowning. _Damn it._

“Name your price and I’ll consider it,” she says evenly. Her instincts are telling her that asking for suggestions is a _terrible_ idea, but she hasn’t committed to anything yet; there’s still room to turn her down if Root asks for her soul or something.

“Blood,” says Root without a second thought.

“... How much?” Blood offerings are probably unsafe, and god knows what occult effects it’ll have. On the other hand, she’s gone to some real fuckin’ effort to make this deal; it’d be a waste not to see it through if she can.

“Don’t worry, Shaw, I won’t drink you dry. No point in that,” Root simpers. “You probably won’t even get lightheaded.”

“What will it do? Magically speaking.” Shaw can’t believe that those are words she’s actually saying right now.

“Seal the deal and give me enough strength to go through with it,” Root replies airily. It’s suspiciously casual, and Shaw searches her face for any hint that she’s holding back information. Root just smirks in response. After a long moment, Shaw decides that she has no option but to believe the demon - for the time being, at least.

“If you’re lying about this,” she warns, holding out her injured hand towards Root, palm downwards.

Smiling, Root stalks closer and takes Shaw’s hand in both of hers, bringing it to her mouth; she licks up the wrist to the cut itself, closing her lips over it and worrying at it with her tongue. There’s a moment of sharp pain as the scab breaks and the wound reopens, but it quickly settles to a dull throb. Her eyes flutter shut and Shaw glances around, trying to find something to focus on that isn’t the small eager noises Root makes in the back of her throat as she drinks. The landscape, unfortunately, is as bleak as ever; Shaw shuts her eyes and concentrates on ignoring the stirring in her gut that the pain and Root’s mouth on her both incite.

A final sigh from Root prompts Shaw to open her eyes. She drags her hand away, spilling more blood onto the road, and steps back; Root’s closeness is suddenly awkward, almost suffocating. Blinking, Root looks at her - no, looks _through_ her - and grins, her teeth stained crimson.

“Hm, you’re stronger than I thought.” She licks a smudge of blood off her lower lip, and her brow furrows. “And quieter.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, any curiosity about what Root means drowned out by urgency. “Are we done here?”

“If you insist,” Root drawls.

“Then _go_.”

“Of course, _captain_.” Root throws her a lazy two-fingered salute and turns away; Shaw scowls as she vanishes on the desert mirage. If she didn’t know better, she would swear that a soft _congratulations on surviving the war_ is carried on the breeze after her.

 

“Weirdest fuckin’ thing,” the biggest marine in their informal debrief-circle says. Shaw twists the top off a bottle of water and hands it to him; he nods gratefully, careful not to move the arm currently bound up in a sling. “‘Course, I was blindfolded; gonna need the rest of y’all to fill in the details. Anyways, I was all tied up, goons strutting around like they own the fuckin’ place, when there’s this bigass explosion over by the main doors. Shitton of gunfire, running, yelling, the whole shebang. Next thing I know I’m being cut free by this girl _totally_ not dressed for combat. All she said to me was “Captain Shaw says hello”. D’y’know who she was?”

Shaw suppresses an eyeroll and then shakes her head at him. He shrugs and takes a sip of water. The three men aren’t badly hurt, only a few cuts and sprains; from reports, it sounds like Root was wildly successful. _Emphasis on the wildly,_ she grumbles internally _._

“She was dual-wielding pistols,” supplies the soldier to Shaw’s left, “It’s way more inaccurate than using one - remember when they made Hanser try it out on the range, it kicked his ass - but she landed _every fuckin’ shot._ I’ve never seen anything like it. She even hit the one that was behind her without turning to look!”

That makes Shaw raise an eyebrow. _Should have guessed that a demon on the occult equivalent of steroids would be such a showoff._

“Some-fuckin’-how, she didn’t take a hit from any of them! You’ve seen the warehouse Shaw, it’s exposed as shit, no cover anywhere. Bastards had assault rifles against her pistols and she just killed ‘em all. And after, she just _vanished_ ,” chimes in the last man, sitting leaning back against the door of a jeep. “We searched for her before we left but there was no sign that she’d ever been there. Fuckin’ beats me, that’s for sure.”

The three of them look at her, clearly waiting for an assessment of their story. She knows that command hadn’t believed them, but no other explanations had come to hand; the whole thing will likely be chalked up to superstition and delirium.

“Well boys, weird shit happens in the desert.” She shrugs. “Call it a miracle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should go without saying, but don't actually do this. It's tagged "unsafe depictions of blood magic" for a reason.


	4. Chapter 4

“I almost had him, Cole,” Shaw grumbles over the hum of the air conditioning. There’s no need to lower her voice, of course - the number is tied up in the next room - but it helps keep her anger in check. Her cleaning rag stains red as she wipes her knife on it, meticulous even in her frustration.

The safe house is ramshackle, bordering on squalid, as she’d expected of such a laughably under-equipped cell. They’ve been camped out at the rickety dining table for hours, dredging their memories for anything that might help them break the number. Bloody-mindedness is the only thing his group have on their side, and it’s doing them well; under other circumstances, she might even be impressed by such dedication.

Cole glances up at her and shakes his head. “You wouldn’t’ve got him in time. We need an interrogator.” He half-smiles. “Good try though.”

Shaw glowers at him. “It’s four am.”

“Must be someone up. Indigo Three’s in town, I think.”

“Indigo Three will also try and take the credit, and I would rather eat a muffin made of broken glass than deal with the resulting political bullshit,” Shaw says. After a moment, she sighs. “I have a contact. She lives in the area.” The last part is a lie, but she _really_ doesn’t feel like explaining her decades-old acquaintanceship with a demon to him right now. Calling Root for a job like this is probably safe; she thrives on violence, and seems content to play along if the mission is brutal enough.

“I don’t have any better ideas,” he replies, shrugging. “Think you can get her here quick?”

“Sure thing.” Her chair creaks as she stands up. Sliding her knife back into its sheath, she pauses; Root still isn’t entirely trustworthy, and having a contingency plan is smart. Just in case.

“If I’m not back in twenty, call in Indigo Three,” she says. He nods, and the door squeaks on its hinges as she leaves in search of a demon.

 

The sun hasn’t cracked the horizon yet, but a sickly light-pollution glow hangs over the city. High summer is always the busiest time of year for the Activity; every jerk with a grudge decides to try their hand at terrorism, and the humidity only serves to make foot chases even less fun than usual. Every member of Catalyst Indigo has been hightailing back and forth across the country for weeks without so much as an afternoon off.

She draws her knife as she approaches the intersection at the end of the street. Cutting through her old scar is an effort, the skin traumatised twice over and toughened against attack. Nonetheless, it’s the Root Scar; the idea of creating a new one now seems almost sacrilegious. The point breaks through, rewarding her with a streak of red against the blackened steel.

“Root,” she says with rock-solid certainty of purpose, letting the blood drip onto the road. A security camera blinks away above her. She counts upwards under her breath, curious to see how long Root will take this time; New York is no Afghanistan, but a ballpark could come in handy later.

Bored by the empty crossing, she turns away and stares back along the street. The apartment block is just as dilapidated from the outside, all crumbling facade and missing windows; it lurks sullenly among the other boarded up houses and shops. Empty beer bottles litter the sidewalk. Overall, it screams ‘bad part of town’; if Cole had been willing to take her bet about the state of the number’s safe house, she’d be $40 richer right now.

Root steps out from a pool of shadow under a streetlamp. _Thirty_ , Shaw notes.

“The term ‘crossroads’ starts to lose its meaning in a place like this,” Root says, brushing the last of the darkness off herself and looking around.

“Welcome to New York,” Shaw replies dryly. She takes in the cut of Root’s skirt and button-down shirt – they fit her too perfectly – and the way Root has nonchalantly rolled her sleeves up to the elbow. The black and crimson contrast flawlessly with her pale skin, and Shaw finds with some irritation that not even her solid boots can give her an edge against Root’s height advantage.

Root breaks the silence first. “What do you want, Shaw? Assuming that you didn’t just summon me because you missed me _so_ badly.”

Shaw rolls her eyes. Root won’t leave until she’s heard what’s in store; there’s a certain satisfaction in leaving her hanging like this, in skewing the power balance, even if it’s only for a moment. Root looks at her slyly and cocks her head. She prowls closer, pausing only a couple of feet away.

“So are you gonna tell me, or keep being a tease?”

“We have a man tied up in there,” Shaw replies, gesturing to the apartment block. “He’s a terrorist, and we only have until dawn to find out the names of his associates and their target.”

“Sameen, are you asking me to torture someone for you?” Root asks breathlessly. Shaw shifts at the use of her name, taking a obviously fight-ready stance; what she’ll actually do if Root tries to control her is another question, but it pays to be ready.

“You’ve done it before.”

“You _assume_ I’ve done it before,” Root says, though the gleam in her eyes gives her away. “Not that you ever cared about my methods until now.”

“I still don’t,” Shaw replies. “I need that information, for it to be true, and for him to be alive at the end. You could sit him down for a cup of tea for all I care.”

Root looks delighted. “So what are you offering?”

In answer, Shaw clenches her fist; a single drop of blood seeps out of the cut. Root glances at it, biting her lip, and then shakes her head.

“As great as your blood is, I’m going to need to focus for this one,” she says.

“It’s all I have to offer. I’m a sociopath; I don’t do sentiment.”

“The answer’s no, Sameen. And even though you’re offering me a job that’s basically a hobby, I can’t work for nothing. That’s outside the rules.”

Shaw advances on her until there’s only inches keeping them apart. “And what _are_ the rules, exactly? Because you sure as shit never told me.”

“ _Shaw_.” Root sighs, looking both exasperated and amused. “I can’t. Besides, it’d ruin the fun.”

“I need you to break this guy,” Shaw growls. There has to be another option here, something she’s missed, but she can’t place what it might be.

Root cocks her head. “How much?”

“Not soul-selling much, if that’s what you mean.” Shaw narrows her eyes. _Wait. Soul. Offerings don’t have to be corporeal, after all_. She mulls over the idea, instantly recognising that it opens her to a whole new world of idiotic risk. What other choice is there, though? If she turns Root away, if there’s even a chance that innocent people die because of her lapse in duty, then she may as well hang up her damn boots right now.

“... But I could owe you a favour.” It takes all her self-control not to wince as she speaks.  

Root grins at her. “You always did like danger. I accept.”

“Then it’s settled. Come on.” Shaw stalks past her towards the apartment block.

“Seal it with a kiss, Sameen,” Root demands playfully, and Shaw rounds on her in disbelief. There’s no hint of a joke in Root’s expression, however, and Shaw decides that it's best to play along. Setting her jaw, she steps back into Root’s space. _What’s one kiss, really?_ In the grand scheme of things, it barely registers; besides, Root isn’t exactly unattractive. She huffs. This is bigger than either of them, and if she has to kiss a demon for the mission then so be it.

Reaching up, she drags Root down by the collar – _how in the hell is she so tall?_ – and presses their lips together. Root’s mouth is warm and soft on hers, certainly more so than she’d expected. Dimly, she feels Root smirking and she bites down in response; her teeth catch Root’s lower lip, splitting the skin. The taste of Root’s blood is heavy, bitter, more reminiscent of ichor than anything human. Root reels back, shock flickering briefly across her face. They lock eyes and Shaw feels her skin prickle, just for a moment.

Root smiles ferally. “ _Now_ it’s settled.”

 

The stairs groan under their feet as Root follows her up to the second floor. Somehow, Root immediately makes a beeline for the correct apartment; she lets herself in ahead of Shaw, who quickens her steps to keep up. Once inside, Shaw ushers Root through to the living room and bolts the door behind them.

“Just in time,” Cole says. “Tried talking to him again while you were out, Shaw, didn’t get anywhere. Dosed him up with sodium pentathol for you though.”

“Perfect,” says Root. She stands tall, professional; Cole eyes her warily, quietly unimpressed.

“You’d better be good.”

“I don’t know if you could say that,” Root looks sidelong at Shaw, “but I’ll get your information.”

Shaw drops down into the spare chair and nods to the bedroom.

“The perp is in there,” she says flatly. Root pouts at the cold welcome, but quickly brightens up again as she ducks into the next room. She turns, flashing Shaw a devastating smile, and shuts the door with a click. There’s the sound of muffled voices, a thump, a scream, and then silence. Cole looks meaningfully at Shaw.

“She’s not an interrogator.” It’s not a question; Shaw doesn’t expect it to be.

“She’s enough of one.”

“What should I put in the mission report?” he asks, fishing a laptop out of the duffel bag at his feet.

“Code 509, allied external operative. I’ll do the explaining if Wilson gives you a hard time, since she’s one of mine.”

The clatter of Cole’s birdlike typing fills the apartment while Shaw drums her fingers on the table aimlessly. She knows he trusts her judgement, but he’s always probing the cracks of their missions regardless. His need to chase money trails and electronic footprints would be irritating coming from anyone else, and it still is when he gets distracted during a mission; overall, though, his heart is in the right place. _Behind the sternum and between the third and fourth ribs,_ she remembers, and almost smiles. A violent glee rushes in her veins and colours her thoughts; she starts to clean her pistol, carefully pulling it apart to give her itching hands something to do. Her heart leaps, unbidden, and the firing pin slips from her fingers.

The firing pin _never_ slips from her fingers.

She slams the pieces of the gun down on the table, infuriated. Her chair scrapes across the carpet as she stands; Cole glances up at her, worried, and she grimaces in reply. He’s usually the impatient one, and the abnormality isn’t lost on her. She paces to an empty patch of floor, pauses, and throws a flurry of punches at empty air. Pivoting, she drives her elbow back into an imaginary assailant; her mind goes back to her training days and the brutal drills Hersh had thrown at her. She can feel her heart rate picking up and it’s almost enough to drown out the intoxicating, sadistic excitement that runs alongside her blood.

The bedroom door swings open and their number tumbles out. Shaw freezes, dropping her hands to her sides. He’s streaked with dried blood and dirt, his wrists red and chafed raw; the angles of his joints seem slightly wrong, as though they’ve been dislocated and then snapped back into place by someone unconcerned with causing lasting damage. His whimpers have a hoarse edge, his voice worn out from screaming and dehydration. Root steps into the room a second later.

Shaw finds a dark satisfaction in the scene.

Nudging him with her toe, Root says, “Come on, Al, tell my friends what you told me.”

He curls up into a ball and sobs. “Tobias Osbourne. Scott Walsh. Adelia Kevins. Bomb. Grand Central Station.”

“Good. You can pass out now.” Root turns away from her victim without a second thought. He huddles down smaller, shivering and whimpering. The electric thrum in Shaw’s nerves dies down a little as she does; Shaw’s gaze flicks from her to the number and back again.

“How do we know it’s true?” asks Cole warily.

“It will be,” Shaw growls before Root can open her mouth. “That was the deal.”

“And he’s even still alive,” Root says wistfully. “Looks like that’s my part done. Later, Shaw.” She sweeps out of the room.

“I’ll call it in. Homeland security can track them all down faster than the two of us,” Cole says as the door clicks shut.

“Yeah.” Shaw blinks, and gruffly adds, “I’ll be right back.” Root may have a head start, but Shaw can feel from the buzz in her ribcage that she hasn’t vanished yet. She dashes out of the apartment and barrels down the stairs, leaping the last five; her shoulder protests as she rolls through the landing, but it’s the least of her problems right now. Flinging herself out into the stifling heat of the night, she spots Root leaning against a familiar lamppost.

“What the fuck did you do?” she yells down the street. Root smirks at her.

“Palestinian hanging,” she says, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather, “though I do like to mix methods.”

Shaw glares at her. The bitter, ichor taste is back in her mouth. “You know what I meant.”

Root laughs, and Shaw hates that she can feel it in her chest.

“Oh, the blood bond? I thought you knew what you were getting into, Sameen.” There’s a sharp edge to her smile, like she’s feigning confidence to cover her earlier surprise. Bristling, Shaw digs her nails into her palms; all she wants is to claw down inside herself and rip out every piece of Root that’s settled under her skin.

Instead, she snarls, “How do I get rid of it?”

“That would be telling. See you ‘round, Shaw.” She winks and slips away down the street. The last echoes of her invasive feelings fade as she goes and Shaw kicks out at a stray beer bottle, cursing loudly into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with all things magical in this story: don't.


	5. Interlude A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do we do with scenes that are too long to be a paragraph of exposition, but don't fit the structure of the story? Interludes! [jazz hands]

“So what’s your interest in the Vail collection, professor…?”

“Bayles,” answers Shaw. She glances back at the grad student -  _ Justin - _ sent to show her around; he’s tall, gangly, pale in the kind of way that’s reserved for people with library science degrees.

“Professor Bayles, of course. It’s just that mesmerism isn’t a proven theory at all - I don’t see why it would be relevant to a psychologist like yourself.” He hurries to keep up, almost tripping over himself. Shaw wonders if she should have just broken in.

“I’m not here for the mesmerism texts.” 

“But… the rest of the collection is technology; flight, electronics, magnetism. There’s not a lot in the way of humanities.”

“A number of demonology and occult books were donated when the collection was being assembled, right? I’m after them.”

“I still don’t see how that applies to psych-”

“Look,” Shaw says, reminding herself not to shoot him, “some therapists in a town near my college have had a spate of cases recently with kids believing they’ve summoned a ‘crossroads demon’. One of my colleagues asked me to go back and check out some old books to see if the stories are coming from somewhere specific.”

“Surely the internet would be a better bet.”  _ Will he ever shut the fuck up? _

“Too conflicting. Every two-bit goth with a router thinks they’re an expert on demons,” she says, opening the door to the library. The inside is cool, quiet, a welcome shelter from the summer heat. Like every other library, it’s quiet but not silent; murmured conversations and the skitter of fingers across keyboards echo off the high ceilings. Justin turns away and leads her down a flight of stairs to the basement. 

Winding their way through the towering stacks, they come to an unassuming door with a plaque on the front that reads ‘Vail Collection’. Inside, solid oak bookshelves run down the middle of the large room, cut by rows of desks; shelving also covers three of the walls, the fourth taken up by a row of filing cabinets. It’s dim, lit only by shaded lamps, presumably to help preserve the books. Shaw immediately strides towards the ‘Occult’ section that she spots at the far end.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Justin says, trotting up to her and holding out a pair of cotton gloves. “ _ Please  _ put these on, some of these books are very old and delicate.”

He nods gratefully as she slips them on and then starts to flit up and down the section, examining titles. Muttering to himself, he pulls a couple of books down off the shelf and hands them to Shaw; they’re heavy, solidly bound, and covered in a thin layer of dust.

“Those are the only ones I can think of that might mention crossroads demons,” he says. “Authors tended to be concerned with more easily summoned… entities. There should be a bunch of stuff about blood bonds, though!” 

Shaw makes a face behind his back.  _ Librarians get excited about the weirdest things.  _ She turns and places the books down on a nearby desk, dropping her handbag next to them. Sitting, she grabs the top book and leafs through it. A soft  _ oof _ prompts her to glance up; Justin is bowed under a stack of books, obscured slightly by a cloud of dust. He staggers over to her and places the pile gently on her right. She fishes a notebook and pen out of her bag, just in case  _ something _ useful turns up.

“There’s probably some firsthand accounts in the letter archives, but they’ll be more trouble,” he says, gesturing to the filing cabinets.

Shaw shakes her head. “This should be fine.” She smiles, and it’s only moderately forced.

“Cool. I’ll be out studying near the front entrance if you need anything. Good luck!” 

He wanders off, and Shaw goes back to reading. The book has landed on an…. interesting woodcut of a demon, all claws and teeth and horns. She skims the text, searching for keywords just like she’d learned in med school; this probably wasn’t what her professors had in mind when they’d talked themselves blue about “transferable skills”. Nothing jumps out at her as she flicks past page after page, and she frowns and grabs the other book. This one is handwritten, more dense, harder to decipher. She shifts in her chair and stretches her legs out in front of her under the desk; if she’s gonna be here for the next few hours, it’s worth getting comfortable.

 

The book falls shut with a thump, and she stabs her pen down into the blank notebook page. Of course occult researchers wouldn’t know anything about crossroads demons; Root’s demonhood is complex, man-made, not something that can be confined to the inside of a pentacle. She considers the pile of books on the blood bond, reaching out and turning it around to examine the titles. Most of them are named incomprehensible things like _Zauber-Bibliothek_ (her German is passable, conversational even, but she balks at the idea of tackling a 19th century treatise in it). One in particular catches her eye, smaller than the others. It’s in English, a journal, the first entries dated to late 1758; in the opening paragraph the author declares himself a ‘philosopher scientist’, whatever the fuck that means. She skips to the back pages in the hopes of bypassing any wide-eyed existential crises.

_ Deals with Belphegor are becoming more and more intricate; I have begun to write my demands in advance to make sure that the wordings are unambiguous as possible lest something terrible happens. He seems to be growing impatient with me, bored, almost petulant, defaulting to his earlier bitter, virulent threats. It is behaviour most unbefitting a Prince of Hell. In our last meeting, as a suggestion to remedy the problem, he proposed to me the sanguinem vinculum, the so called “blood-bond”, and I am of a mind to accept.  _

_ Imagine the possibilities! There is such a dearth of information about the ritual beyond hearsay, legend, conflicting and fickle as ever. Why, I may be the first man to make a record of its effects that is able to stand up to scientific scrutiny! _

_ Despite my apparent excitement, I do not choose this lightly, of course. Harrison has already talked me every which way about the risks, the dangers to my person, of course - he had the gall to compare me to Faust, the cad! - yet there comes a time in one’s life that decisions simply must be made. I hope to God, or whatever entity may be willing to bless me in these times, that my protections are enough. _

_ [March 17th, A.D. 1759] _

_ It appears that simultaneity of exchange makes the blood-bond most effective, or at least I dread to think how it could be more so; my very bones are set alight by his presence. Alas I cannot conduct any further experiments, as even the pauper boys will take no bribe to be a subject of sorcery such as this. Belphegor is caring, affectionate, tender even, remarkably more so since he is now able to feel my emotions as I feel his… _

Shaw stops to roll her eyes. She’s here for information, not sordid forbidden demon romance. Flipping through the next few pages she notices that the handwriting starts to deteriorate, the author becoming more and more deranged the more he deals with the demon. It’s unclear how much of it will apply to her, what with Root not being a literal Prince of Hell and all; nonetheless, she scribbles down some bullet points in her notebook.

 

The blare of a siren from the main part of the library jerks her out of her reading. Her hand goes to the grip of her gun automatically, but she doesn’t immediately draw it. A voice comes over the intercom in the basement, faint; straining to make it out, she realises it’s only a notice that the library will be closing in fifteen minutes. 

Letting go of the gun, she stretches. It’s probably not worth returning tomorrow; only two books are left untouched, and she at least has the scope of the problem by now. She gathers up the armful of books and treks back over to the shelf. Setting everything back in its place is a quick process, efficient, made simpler by the conspicuous gaps left behind. 

Returning to her desk, she pulls off the gloves; the air is cold on the newly exposed skin. She picks up her notebook and looks back over the pages of scrawl. Her handwriting is borderline illegible in places, having never really recovered from her time as a doctor; John’s complained about it once or twice, but she figures that neither he nor else has any reason to be reading these notes. They’re a mess of contradictions, mostly in the vein of  _ appears to cause madness  _ and  _ powerful, but at great cost _ . What’s almost personally insulting, though, is that there’s one aspect all the texts  _ do _ agree on.

The blood bond is unbreakable.

_ Fuck. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm stepping the update schedule down for the forseeable future 'cause uni is kicking off again here and I need to, like, actually do assignments and stuff. Aiming for fortnightly, but we'll see.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canadianwheatpirates returns from the war! That'll teach me to try writing... anything... during the semester lmao. Big apologies for how massively screwed up my schedule got. Thanks for sticking around!
> 
> Halfway!

“Ms, Shaw, _please_ come back to the library. I’m sure it would be easier to find John if we coordinate our efforts.”

“You said it yourself, Finch, they ditched his tracker. We have no idea where he’s been taken,” Shaw says, her words punctuated by the steady drip of blood. The overpass is dark and filthy, sheltered from the light of the streetlamps above, but it keeps the drizzle off for now.

“And what good do you think staying out in the city will do?” Finch snaps. Somehow, he’s even more agitated than usual; she’d underestimated how much of a safety blanket Reese was to him.

“I’m working on it.” She mutes her end of the line and adds, “C’mon, Root.”

“While I understand that your preference is to run in without a plan-”

“I _have_ a plan, Finch. Just call me if you find anything,” Shaw replies tersely, and hangs up. She can only stand so much directionless anxiety. Telling him exactly what the plan _is_ would be a bad move; summoning a demon to help her almost certainly comes under ‘things we try to avoid, if possible, Ms Shaw’.

The small _tug_ that tells her Root is out in the world comes quicker than she’d expected. It’s happened maybe three times that she’s noticed, not that she knew what it was until after she’d read about the effects of the (god damn) blood bond.

“As usual, you manage to pick the strangest summoning spots,” remarks Root, strolling into view. She’s as leather-clad and casual as can be; normally Shaw would say that the pants _and_ jacket would be overkill, but she has to admit that Root looks great.

“I need you to help me track down my partner.”

Root raises an eyebrow. “ _Partner_?”

“Ugh, no.” Shaw grimaces. “Only in the mission sense.”

“What kind of trouble is he in? Government? Mafia?” Root bounces on her toes in anticipation. Shaw’s fingers twitch.

“Serial killer. Took him as a trade for the guy were trying to protect. Apparently Reese looks like he’s gonna be ‘more interesting’.”

Root frowns slightly. “Your job got complicated while I wasn’t looking.”

Shaw doesn’t grace that with a response. Instead, she walks over to her car and rummages around in the back seat, retrieving her offering from among the guns in her duffel bag. She’d spent hours wandering through a department store looking for something that Root might like, determined to avoid owing another favour or more blood; in hindsight, the choice of gift should have been obvious.

Root appears at her shoulder and looks down at the slippers. They’re fluffy, and shaped like rabbits.

“This is unusual.” Her tone is too measured for Shaw to tell what she’s thinking, and her feelings are completely opaque.

“Figured you never got much in the way of... creature comforts or whatever.”

Root reaches out and runs her fingers over the pink fur for a moment. She takes the slippers and stuffs them into her pockets; adoration hits Shaw like - _like watching the football with her dad under a pile of blankets - like curling up with Cole to share body heat in a freezing Lithuanian shack - like finally collapsing into bed after a hundred straight hours of missions -_ like a boot to the ribs. Staggering back, Shaw reaches out behind her and leans against the wall for a moment.

“What the hell.”

Root glances down and away. Shaw’s chest tightens uncomfortably; _is this what_ **_embarrassment_ ** _feels like?_

“... So how are we gonna do this?” she asks, breaking the moment.

“Blood magic,” Root replies, unease vanishing. She reaches into a pocket (now slipper free, which makes Shaw suspect that they’re secretly bottomless) and produces a palm-sized silver disc. Handing it over, she fishes out a switchblade and pricks her thumb on the point. The wound leaves a thick, black trail in its wake as she drags it from the center of the disc to the edge. Her feelings have a jagged undercurrent, like she abhors being wounded - being _vulnerable_ \- in front of Shaw.

“Focus your thoughts on him,” Root says.

Reese is easy to make a clear image of, between his gruff demeanour and the bright blue of his eyes. Trading disc for knife, Shaw mirrors Root’s actions; her blood smears a red counterpoint to the black ichor. Root mutters in a guttural language, all sharp vowels and harsh consonants, passing a hand over the disc. The red and black streaks shift and then settle again, forming what looks like a compass needle; it swings of its own accord, pointing off at a diagonal across the city.

Root nods with satisfaction and hands the disc back.

“That’s where he is?” asks Shaw.

“Your blood knows him,” Root says as she rounds the car, like it explains everything. Shaw shakes her head, ducking into the driver’s seat; there’s no way in hell she’s letting Root behind the wheel. She props the compass up on the dashboard, releases the handbrake, and turns the key in the ignition.

 

She gets ten whole minutes of silence before Root reaches for the radio.

“Don’t.”

Root pauses, considering her options for a brief moment, and flips it on anyway. Slow, grimy rock music drifts from the speakers; Shaw peers at the display. _Shouldn’t this be a talk radio channel?_

She changes up a station in the hopes of finding tolerable background noise, and Root smirks as the radio lands on another rock song.

“Fucking ‘Sympathy for the Devil’? Really?” Shaw says, and Root schools her face into an innocent expression; it sits badly on her. Shaw growls and wrestles with the frequency dial.

“I found the devil - demons! C’mon - waiting at these crossroads - that old devil moon -”

At last she finds a classical music station full of discordant violins. It’s enough of a win for her to settle back in her seat, though Root doesn’t stop grinning.

“Left up here,” Root says, nodding to the compass.

“I have eyes.”

A taxi cuts them off; Shaw takes great satisfaction in cursing the driver out in German.

“Aside from the swearing you’ve been pretty quiet,” observes Root.

“Got nothing to say.” Shaw takes the next turn more sharply than necessary, trying to make Root take her feet down off the _fucking dashboard._

“Not even curious about the blood bond? You sure had some questions last time.”

“Asking _you_ questions tends to have shitty outcomes.” In her periphery, Shaw sees Root pouting at her.

“I like to think we’ve come a long way since then, Sameen.”

Shaw grits her teeth.

“Answers freely given?” Root says lightly. Her feelings are rough around the edges, hard to parse; Shaw has no trouble reading emotions when they’re on other people, in gestures and expressions and posture, but experiencing them from the inside is something else entirely.

Still, free information is free information.

“Strappado takes more than five minutes. How did you fit in hours of torture?” Shaw asks.

“Plane shift,” Root says. “Found somewhere time moves more slowly is all.”

“... Right.” That explanation sounds as realistic as anything else about Root. Silence, punctuated by screeching classical music, settles over them again as Shaw thinks. Root turns back to the window, watching the passing city with wide eyes. Fleetingly, Shaw wonders if Root’s ever seen a town that wasn’t Bishop.

“Y’know,” she says, “I only heard about the crossroads curse third hand. They turned it into a Halloween story.”

“So?” Root looks at Shaw sidelong, her gaze piercing and challenging.

“It’d be good to hear your take, I guess,” Shaw says with a shrug.

Root snorts and takes her feet down.

“What is there to tell? I was an ill-liked child who died in suspicious circumstances, and the pastor saw fit to curse me for it. Of course, I did get to kill old Teddy in the end; that was fun.”

Memory stirs: a man drunkenly slurring _d’you want revenge, little girl?_ ; a neck snapping in her hands; echoing laughter. Shaw’s fists clench on the steering wheel.

“Was that… you?”

“Yes.” Airily, Root adds, “Of course, it took me a few years to properly get the hang of the whole demonic powers thing.”

Shaw tries to picture a more melodramatic version of Root.

She fails.

In front of her, the compass needle swings in search of Reese.

 

Shaw cuts the engine and switches off the headlights. The building they’re parked across from might have been an auto repair shop, once, but years of rust and rot have robbed it of any integrity. Dim light seeps out the broken window panes of the main door; the whole place seems like it could give you tetanus just by looking at it wrong.

“There’s only two of them in there,” Root says, cocking her head. “One’s badly hurt.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” It’s a decent leap of logic, but not as impressive as Root probably hoped. Reese is hardy; that’s the only reason they’ve had this much time to find him. She stays put as Root leans in, her excitement crawling under Shaw’s skin like an ant swarm.

“So what’s the plan?” she breathes.

“Rescue Reese, bring in the killer. ‘Bring in’ meaning _alive,_ ” Shaw adds. Root grins sharply at her and gets out, jogging silently over to the shed. Reaching over into the back, Shaw grabs a first aid kit from the duffel bag and stuffs it into her belt; there’s no telling what state Reese will be in, but it’s likely to be bad. After a moment’s consideration, she also picks out a second pistol from among the pile of weaponry and shoves it into her belt as well.

Root has her ear pressed to the side of the garage when Shaw arrives at her side. “They’re both at eleven o’clock, but the healthy one keeps wandering around,” she whispers.

“How the fuck do you know that?” Shaw hisses. The indistinct hum of lowered voices comes through the wall; there’s a pause, and then a drawn out groan as something painful happens to Reese.

“Heartbeats,” Root replies, as though it should be obvious. Shaw rolls her eyes and turns to the door. A heavy combination lock holds it shut, but that’s no real obstacle; she grabs it and pulls down, turning the last number with her free hand until it sticks in place.

_Gotcha._

Root smiles sympathetically at her as she spins the next wheel, seeking out the second digit of the combination, and then reaches over and yanks the lock clean off.

“Well that’s _one_ way to do it,” says Shaw. She draws her gun.

“After you,” Root murmurs; apparently she’s smart enough to know when _not_ to go all one-woman army. Shaw crashes through the door, gun raised, and-

“Sameen Shaw, _wait_.”

\- freezes, finger stuck on the trigger. The kidnapper yelps and bolts for the back door; it slams behind him as Root comes up beside her. She puts a hand on Shaw’s shoulder and leans in conspiratorially.

“Sorry, sweetie, couldn’t let you have all the fun,” she says.

If Shaw could move, she’d break Root’s fingers. As it is, all she can do is glare; maybe, if she tries hard enough, Root will drop dead on the spot.

That would be nice.

Root smiles at her and darts out after the kidnapper. Shaw struggles for a few moments, trying to lift even a foot to chase her down. Suddenly, Root’s burning excitement feels blunted, like her emotions are at arm’s length; Shaw’s gun clatters to the ground uselessly.

“Fuck!”

“Shaw?” Reese asks hoarsely. He looks like hell under the single dim lightbulb that hangs in the centre of the shed, the front of his shirt soaked with blood from two open knife wounds across his chest.

“Yeah.” She pushes her anger down. Reese is injured; she’ll deal with Root’s bullshit later. Crossing over to him, she pulls out her first aid kit. His arms are tied tightly to the back of the chair, though not enough to cut off his circulation, and he pulls weakly against the ropes.

“Keep still,” she says, drawing her knife and cutting him free, “I need to stitch those up before you make them worse.”

Reese squints at her as she pulls the front of his shirt open. There’s a livid bruise already forming on the side of his jaw; she’ll need to watch him overnight for concussion. The two slashes on his chest are relatively shallow and amateur, easily fixed. He whimpers as she dabs antiseptic into the cuts and she flinches minutely.

“Shh,” she says. Her brow furrows, and more forcefully she adds, “Stop being a fucking baby.”

He mumbles in response and Shaw wipes a needle clean with the last of the antiseptic. Hunting around for the suture thread, she dials Finch with her free hand. He picks up immediately.

“Have you found him, Ms Shaw?” he asks before she has a chance to speak. She considers a sarcastic response, but decides against it. Finch’s heart might stop out of sheer terror.

“Yeah. He’s pretty beat up, but should be okay. I’m patching him up now,” she says, threading the needle and making the first stitch. John grunts; she glares at him.

“How on earth did you-”

“I’m gonna give you the chance to take that question back,” she says. There’s a moment of silence on the line.

Finch coughs, and asks, “Will he be safe to move?”

“I haven’t called an ambulance, so yes. Not taking him back to my place though. Any suggestions?” Finch will have a safe house waiting; one of the good things about working for him is his ownership of, apparently, a third of the apartments in Manhattan. She ties off the first set of stitches and moves to the other cut.

“I’ll send you the address and meet you there.”

“Wait till morning. It’s not like Reese is going to be going anywhere.” The last thing she needs is Finch getting underfoot as she keeps an eye on Reese, _especially_ if Root decides to show up again. She probes at his ribs, checking for breaks and fractures. He winces.

“I know you have a high pain tolerance, but you need to tell me when something hurts,” she says, examining the bruising on his chest more closely.

“Ow.” _Fractured, probably. Could have been a lot worse._

“You’ll be fine. Think you can stand?” Shaw asks, packing up the first aid kit. She glances at her phone; as promised, there’s an address waiting.

“Yeah.” He staggers to his feet. She keeps close to his side as they cross the room, ready to grab him if he loses his balance. Her boot hits her discarded gun on the way past, and she stoops to grab it; leaving gear at a crime scene would be _so_ amateur. Reese fumbles with the door handle and she takes pity on him, opening it and leading him out to the car.

The radio comes on as the engine rumbles to life and a drawn-out, dissonant guitar chord rings around them. Root at least seems to have had the grace to change it to a heavy metal station; Shaw wonders if it’s an apology for the theft of their kidnapper.

“Alright welcome back you’re listening to 101.9 RXP, New York’s best rock radio. We’ve still got time for a couple more requests, I think, and- oh! We have one here by text! Going out to Shaw, this is Rrrrrraise Hell!”

The opening notes of the song are drowned out by the sound of the horn as Shaw’s head thumps against the steering wheel.

 _Definitely not an apology_.

 

Reese leans against the window, eyes closed. Shaw reaches out and punches him in the arm.

“Ngh.”

“Don’t fall asleep in the car. Your head will bounce off the window and your brain has already been smoothied enough tod- ” Her heart seizes and she slams on the brakes, Root’s impatience and delight crashing down on her all at once. The car comes to a screeching halt in the middle of the road.

Reese scrambles for his gun. “Wussgoin on?” he slurs, sitting up in panic when he finds his holster empty. Shaw puts a hand on his chest.

“Settle down, you’ll rip your stitches. I just -” _got emotionally curbstomped_ “- thought I saw someone jump out into the road, but it was a trick of the light.” The feelings ebb after a moment and she pushes them down, reminding herself that keeping Reese safe is the first priority.

She steps on the gas, hands clenched around the steering wheel.

 

Shaw unlocks the door to the safe house, having fished the key out of a tasteful pot plant. Root’s feelings are like a weighted vest that she didn’t notice had gone until it was back. She knows that Root is still out there somewhere, for reasons she couldn’t even begin to guess; maybe tomorrow, she’ll go hunting.

Reese is standing on his own, which is a good sign, but he still looks unsteady and grey. He trails after her into the hall. It’s bright enough to make him squint again; she turns off half the lights and swings open the door to the living room.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

Root stands in the center of the room, grinning. On the floor in front of her is her victim, hog-tied; his bruises and wounds perfectly mirror Reese’s own. The anger that Shaw has been working so hard to suppress rises again at the sight of her, drowning out Root’s interloping happiness.

“What the hell?” Reese asks, peering over Shaw’s shoulder.

She pushes him down the hall towards the bedroom. “Go lie down. I’ll deal with this.”

Root’s grin falters, just for a moment. Shaw strides towards her, all incandescent rage, and she takes a defensive pace back. The kidnapper mumbles through his gag as Shaw steps over him.

Root’s brow furrows. “What’s got you all riled up, Sameen?” she asks, her voice oozing innocence.

Shaw punches her square in the jaw.

It’s like hitting a tree, like the ISA drills where Hersh made her punch concrete; the bones in her hand creak at the impact. Root stumbles backwards and Shaw tackles her, slamming her to the ground. She struggles, briefly, but Shaw pins her down and bars an arm across her throat.

Root goes to speak, but Shaw claps a hand over her mouth.

“Swear that you’ll never use my name against me again, or I’ll shove my gun into your mouth and pull the trigger,” she growls, pressing down on Root’s neck.

Root stares up at her, breathing shallowly. Shaw’s read about ‘eyes you could get lost in’, usually in shitty romance novels while she waits in safe houses; the authors definitely meant something different to this, to inky blackness so deep she can’t even see her own reflection.

Slowly, Root nods. Shaw pulls her hand away and draws her gun. Root doesn’t tense at all at the sight of it; instead, she feels confused.

“I brought you a _serial killer_ ,” she says, offended.

“You let him get away in the first place.” Shaw flicks the safety off. “And you _controlled me_.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind so much,” she purrs.

“ _Swear,”_ hisses Shaw, pressing the barrel of the gun to her temple.

“If it matters to you that badly, then fine.” Root shrugs as much as she can. “I give you my word that I will never use your name against you without your explicit and informed consent.”

“You left a loophole.” Shaw’s finger itches on the trigger. Root, for her part, smiles lazily.

“Can’t a girl have any fun?” she simpers. Glaring, Shaw holsters her pistol. Root’s word is her bond; if she manages to break it, being armed won’t change what happens. Under her, Root squirms. There’s a challenge in her expression, a dare, like she’s waiting on Shaw to kiss her or hit her again. Shaw scowls and climbs off her; whatever Root wants, she’s not getting it.

The kidnapper has wormed his way closer to the door while they’ve been distracted; Shaw stomps over to him and plants a boot right in front of his face. He gives up, head thumping back against the floorboards. She flicks a text to Fusco, smiling slightly at the thought of his face when he finds out that she’s caught the killer he’s been after for weeks.

“Surprised you didn’t break your hand,” Root remarks as she picks herself up. “Most people do.”

“Sounds like you get punched a lot.”

Root cocks her head, staring off into the middle-distance. Suddenly, she grins.

“Better get going,” she says, stepping over her captive. “A couple of jocks are down at my crossroads and one of them just found the guts to call on me.” She brushes against Shaw’s shoulder as she passes, despite having ample room to get by.

“Thought you would’ve had enough tormenting people for today,” Shaw says under her breath, following her to the doorway.

“I don’t think I could ever get enough of tormenting you, Sameen.” Root steps out into the hall and throws a grin over her shoulder.

Shaw shuts the door in her stupid, smug face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are in approx. two weeks, so no update till after those or I will actually die. On the bright side, it's summer from then on out so I can actually put effort into finishing this (there's a clear plan; my limiting factor is time).


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the "relaxing summer in which I maybe finish Fire and Brimstone" turned into "hell summer in which i must move house at extremely short notice" and it was all downhill from there, hence the not updating for six months. Uh. My bad? Anyway it's here, mostly because I got stuck in an airport and finally had the time to finish it.

Shaw hurtles around a corner, sprinting out ahead of her pursuers.

“How’s it goin’, Finch?”

There’s a burst of gunfire; she ducks and weaves, relying on her small stature to protect her.

“Mr Reese has Ms Marsden. I would encourage you to escape as quickly as possible.”

The traffic lights ahead change to red, and she curses. Normally she would turn the corner and keep running, but that would just prolong the chase. What she needs an escape route.

_Damn it._

She grimaces and flings herself out into the road.

Horns blare at her. A car swerves to avoid her and slams into the one beside it. They skid out into the next lane, and shouts join the cacophony of rending metal. Scorched rubber fills her nostrils. Her shoulder stings, clipped by a lucky shot, but she keeps running. She reaches the centre line and stops to glance back. The goons are starting to follow her, now that the traffic between them is jammed. Her coat whips around her as a truck passes inches in front of her. She bounces on her toes, ready to charge forward as soon as there’s an opening.

A taxi screeches to a halt beside the carnage. The back door opens and a man tumbles out onto the ground. In front of her the traffic slows as it winds around the new obstacle, enough that she could slip between the cars. Another gunshot cuts through the tumult, the bullet zipping past her. The taxi just sits there, waiting, back door hanging open almost invitingly.

_Well, it’s better than trying to outrun them._ She dashes over to it and flings herself into the back seat, brushing shoulders with the other passenger.

“34th and 5th!” she yells, slamming her door shut. The driver twists around to argue, but swears and ducks when a bullet pings off the bumper.

“ _Go!”_

He hauls the car around the wreckage and speeds away.

A brief glance marks the passenger as a non-threat, barely interested; they’re turned away, staring out the window, hood pulled up against the cold. Shaw holsters her gun and leans back, taking a second to breathe. She’ll head back to the library, touch base with Finch, go meet up with Reese-

“Hi sweetie,” the passenger says, pulling down her hood and throwing a grin at Shaw.

“Oh, not you too.” Now that she’s come down from the adrenalin rush, she can feel the lurking smugness of Root’s presence; she should have noticed it earlier, but she chalks the mistake up to the whole ‘mortal danger’ thing.

“Is everything alright, Ms Shaw?” Finch asks down her commlink.

“It’s fine. I’ll see you soon.” She clicks the earpiece off before turning to glare at Root. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“You called.”

“The hell I did.”

“Then what’s that?” Root gestures to the graze on Shaw’s shoulder.

“That - that was an accident. I didn’t fucking call you though.”

Root laughs.  “Sameen, didn’t you know? All you have to do is spill blood, now. The name is a formality.”

_Great. Just don’t get shot at an intersection ever again._ “Well, I don’t have anything for you to do, so fuck off.”

Root crowds into her space. “You still owe me a favour.”

_Of fucking course._

“I’ve helped you out here and there,” Root continues, “but you never actually told me what it is you _do_. I want you to let me shadow you.”

“What is this, ‘Bring Your Demon To Work Day’? You think my boss is just going to be okay with an -” she lowers her voice to a hiss “- _actual demon_ gate-crashing? He doesn’t even trust humans.”

The taxi driver turns up the radio.

“He sounds like a fun guy.”

Shaw clenches her jaw.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep out of your friends’ way; they’ll never know I’m there.”

“… Fine.” She still doesn’t entirely trust Root, but it’s not as though she has much say in the matter. Besides, if the stories are true then Root is a spectacle in combat; she might be useful to have around. “I was headed back to our base anyway.”

Root perks up at the mention of a base, and Shaw already knows it’s going to be a long day.

 

The bell over the door jangles as they walk into the bodega.

“You work out of the back room of a corner store? I expected more pizazz.”

“No. I’m out of cash.”

“Even I know ATMs exist, Sameen. Bishop wasn’t that backwards.”

“This place is closer.” The shopkeeper also keeps giving her great discounts as thanks for breaking up a fight last month. (It hadn’t even been a number, she just wasn’t about to let a stupid punch-up get in the way of her lunch.)

A fluffy tabby cat trots up to them. Shaw reaches down to pat it, but it runs past her and butts its head against Root’s leg. Delighted, Root crouches and scratches it behind the ears.

This is the warmest Root has ever seemed. Usually cynicism or general misanthropy underlies her moods a little, but here – being fawned over by a cat – she seems happy. Maybe it’s the attention.

Shaw wanders over to the candy section. She doesn’t need anything aside from money, so it’s wisest to buy something cheap. Behind her, Root leans down further and the cat rubs its face on her cheek. The warmth intensifies; it makes her want to shrug out her coat, but for the fact that it’s still fucking freezing. A flash of inspiration strikes and she grabs a random artificial-red coloured lollipop.

“Just this,” she says to the old woman behind the counter. “Oh, and eighty bucks cash.” The till has a _ten dollar minimum purchase_ sign haphazardly taped to it, but the staff have mysteriously stopped enforcing it recently.

“You’ve found a good one,” the woman replies, typing the total into the register. “Tilly can always tell.”

Shaw snorts. “We’re not together.”

The woman smiles at her knowingly as Shaw swipes her card. Root has scooped Tilly up in her arms; when she sees Shaw looking, she waves one of the cat’s paws at her. Shaw hides her smile by turning back to sign the receipt, but Root laughs regardless - she must have felt it. She sets the cat down as Shaw shoves the cash into her wallet; Tilly chirps and runs over to Shaw, winding around her ankles as she approaches Root.

“Traitor,” Shaw grumbles at it. She brandishes the lollipop at Root. “If I give you this will it keep you quiet?”

“No promises,” Root replies, taking it and slipping it into her pocket. She gestures down to the cat. “And you’re just mad that she picked me.”

“At least one of us likes you.”

 

Shaw pauses outside a graffitied metal door and takes a breath.

“Make sure he doesn’t see you.”

“He won’t.”

She hauls the door open and leads her into the library. The trek up the stairs is familiar by now, but this time it’s full of new details; motes of dust hang in the shafts of sunlight that find their way inside, and the shelves tower over her like they remember the forests they used to be.

“A library,” Root breathes as she reaches the landing. “I loved these when I was alive.”

“So I heard,” murmurs Shaw. “They used to have to carry you home.” She leans on the banister, lingering and giving Root time to look around. To her, the place had never been more than functional; somewhere to group up, to store weapons, to plan. The aesthetics of a base - or lack thereof - have never bothered her, but she has to admit that Finch has a knack for picking somewhere secure _and_ classy.

Root pulls a book down off a shelf and flips through it. “First edition,” she says, and though it sounds like an offhand remark there’s a kind of soft surprise in it that makes Shaw’s breath catch.

“He has money to burn,” is all the response she can muster. The thought of showing off her weapon stash is becoming increasingly tempting, especially if Root reacts the same way to it as she does to old books.

“Ms Shaw?” calls Finch.

Shaw shakes her head to clear it; the mission is still active, after all. “Yeah. What’s up?” She rounds the corner to reach Finch’s nest of computers, Root a pace behind her.

Bear springs to his feet and barks. He puts himself squarely between them and Finch, looking past her to focus on Root.

“Kalmte,” Shaw says, holding out a hand as she approaches the dog. Root leans against the wall, bored. Bear snarls, his tail wagging quickly back and forth.

Finch looks down at him and then up at Shaw, the worry always creased around his eyes more pronounced than usual. “Zitten,” he says sharply.

Bear sits, still growling lowly.

“He’s been pretty anxious,” Shaw says, crouching down to pat his head. “Have you taken him out today?”

Root circles around around the edge of the room until she’s beside the window.

“Sadly I’ve been too busy with our latest number,” he replies. “Locating and erasing all of Ms Marsden’s gambling debts has proven to be quite a challenge.”

“Good thing he didn’t do yours,” Root drawlsas she crosses the room, and Shaw frowns at her. When Finch raises an eyebrow, she schools her face into a more normal-seeming blank expression.

Bear whines and noses at her injured arm.

“Are you hurt?” Finch asks.

She stands up and grabs the medical kit. “Just a graze,” she replies, dropping into a chair on the other side of the desk. The antiseptic stings where it touches her broken skin; out of the corner of her eye she sees Root wince sympathetically.

“That’s fortunate - the shallowness, rather than the injury, of course,” he says. As promised, he doesn’t notice Root’s presence even as she leans over his shoulder to inspect his work; he brushes a stray lock of hair off his shoulder and mutters something about the drafts. She wanders over to a set of shelves, grabbing onto the highest one and and stretching up onto her toes to examine the books.

“How does he get these down?” she asks Shaw over her shoulder. “Does he use one of those extender claws?”

Come to think of it, Shaw isn’t certain how Finch fetches the books he can’t reach; most of the shelves have ladders, but not all. She’d always assumed that he had Reese do it.

“... Ms Shaw?” Finch’s voice drags her attention back to the conversation at hand.

“Hm?” She tapes the last piece of bandage in place, hoping it’s enough of a cover for her distraction.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yup.” Quickly, she changes the subject. “So usual plan, right? Put her on a bus somewhere less deadly?”

Finch gives her a pained look. “Yes. Hopefully Boston is far enough away that her troubles won’t follow.”

“If it isn’t, there’s not much we can do.” She shrugs, and Root nods in agreement. Flicking on her earpiece, she asks, “Hey Reese, you got everything under control? Thought I’d meet you down at the bus station later rather than come gatecrash.”

“Vivien’s packing her things, then we’ll sit tight in a safe house ‘till it’s time,” he replies.

She smirks; at least Reese understands the importance of eating between shootouts. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

“Gotta say, I didn’t expect your boss to be such a textbook recluse. I’m excited to meet John now.”

“Not if I can help it,” mutters Shaw. She’s definitely never used Reese’s first name around Root; just how much does the bond let her pick up?

The diner is loud around them, even for the dinner rush. A man laughs in a nearby booth and she smiles slightly. She’s seen emotional contagion, of course - the fear that sweeps through a room full of hostages, the hush that falls over a lecture hall - but this is something new, something… nice.

Root leans back in her chair, watching the people around them. She’s aloof in the chaos, but Shaw senses that it goes beyond her inhumanity; as a child she’d set herself apart and been shunned in turn. Now, after a century of horror and neglect, it’s a wonder she’s willing to deal with people at all.

“What’s with the animal stuff?” Shaw asks.

“Oh, Bear freaking out? Dogs love humans. I’m a threat, so they hate things like me.” Root beams like it’s a point of pride.

“And cats are, what, evil enough to cozy up to you?”

Drumming her fingers on the table, Root says, “Evil’s a strong word. Call them… pragmatic. They’ll make allies wherever they can.”

“Makes sense.”

Root reaches across the table towards the plate, and Shaw slams her fork down into her encroaching hand.

It bounces off.

Root sniggers and steals a couple of fries as Shaw stares at it, betrayed. “Good try, but I saw you coming.”

“Worth a shot.” She sets down the offending utensil and picks at her fries, considering her next question. After a moment, she asks, “So, you ever done this before?”

“Been to a diner? Not while I was alive. One opened in the 50’s and I tracked people to it a couple of times, but that’s not really the same.”

Shaw takes a bite of her burger and watches Root impassively, ignoring the mess of emotions sitting across the table from her. Either Root will talk or she won’t; pressing her will only guarantee that she keeps avoiding the question.

“... Once,” she says quietly, fidgeting with Shaw’s unused knife.

_“Explain!”_

_“Explain what? You’ll need to give me some context.”_

_“I can’t leave town! Our car broke down at the town limit, and I passed out when I tried to walk across it! I know it’s your fault!”_

_“Is it?” She - no,_ Root - _looks her dead in the eye. “Are you sure it ain’t yours?”_

_Hanna takes a step backward. “What - what do you mean?”_

_“Six years without so much as a thank you. There’s an unpaid debt, and the roads remember.”_

_“Thank you...?”_

_Root laughs. “The thank you isn’t really the problem, but at least you’re polite. Pay your debt and the town will let you go.”_

_“With what?_

_“What’s worth your life?”_

_“I’ve got barely anything! I’m heading off to college! I don’t-”_

_“Yes, you do.”_

_She pales. “I’ll go to hell!”_

_“You were anyway; demon deals are pretty cut-and-dried sinful. And you won’t if I have your soul.”_

_“As if that’s any better.”_

_“Then make me another offer.”_

_“I suppose you won’t take a promise to sell someone else down the river.”_

_“As fun as that sounds, no; it has to be yours to give.”_

_Hanna sighs, defeated. “In return for saving my life, I offer you my soul -_ after _I die.”_

_“Then it’s settled.”_

_“Wait,” Hanna says. She holds out her wounded hand and offers Root the knife. “We shake on it.”_

_“With blood? There’s no going back from an act like that. Besides, your word here is binding.”_

_“Forgive me for not expecting a demon to be trustworthy.”_

_Root shrugs, takes the knife, and slashes her palm open._

Shaw shivers, picks up her beer and takes a swig. “Damn, I thought _I_ made some bad decisions.”

“Well, you did.” Root shrugs, half-smiling.

Another memory presses at the edge of Shaw’s mind. It feels difficult, sharp edged; she fights to keep it out, staring down at her plate.

“What happened to her?” she asks, snapping Root out of whatever reverie she’d slipped into.

“She went mad. It was a good year for deals, and it turns out most people aren’t equipped to handle two sets of feelings.” Root gives her a long look. “Which is what makes you so interesting.”

Shaw snorts. “That’s one way of putting it. And it seems pretty _convenient_ that she went nuts after promising you her soul when she died.”

Root silently sets the knife back on the table. Shaw searches her face and her feelings; despite her ruthlessness, Root seems to be genuinely hurt by the implication. _Ugh_.

“... Or it could’ve been a coincidence.” She shoves a handful of fries in her mouth, hoping that the retraction can stand in for an outright apology.

Root reaches out and grabs a drink from a passing server. “Enough about me,” she says; it’s a touch defensive, like she’s forgiven Shaw but can’t stand the risk of more hurt.  “Tell me about Afghanistan. I only got the one glimpse, after all.”

Shaw takes a sip of her beer, and glances at the clock; they still have time to kill.

“Well, I saw a lot of dirt,” she begins.

 

“So many places to go,” Root muses. The crowd at the bus station has thinned out from the daytime throng, and it’s easy to spot Reese and the number from where they're lurking.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were asking me to run away with you,” Shaw says, and Root rests a hand on her shoulder for a moment. Reese nods when sees her and she switches on her comms, but she hangs back; staying split up is the stronger strategy, and things could get awkward fast if he thinks she’s talking to thin air.

A woman hurries past, stepping around Root, and Reese chuckles. “You forget to put on deodorant this morning, Shaw?”

“No, why?”

“People seem to be keeping their distance more than usual.”

Shaw has to admit that he’s right, not that she’d ever admit that to him. “I guess my charm is finally paying off - shit, _incoming_!” she shouts and draws her gun as a swarm of masked men charge through the front doors. Reese reflexively  pushes the number behind him, reaching for his own gun.

“Can't get a sight line,” he says as the robbers surround the crowd. One of the men fires into the air. Screams erupt, and in the chaos Shaw flings herself behind a potted plant.

“Everybody down on the ground!” the robber yells. Reese looks around and then drops his gun, kneeling down beside the number. Root’s surprise leaves her stuck out in the open as well; she raises an eyebrow at Shaw as she lies down.

“Who would rob a _bus station_?” Shaw whispers.

“Someone with bad timing,” John mutters. A robber walks over to him and kicks him in the ribs, and he winces.

“I’ve alerted the police,” Harold chimes in. “In the meantime I would suggest that you refrain from escalating.”

“This is an inch away from a hostage situation,” Shaw hisses. “Calling the cops _is_ escalating - unless you warned them?”

“I did advise them that it was an armed robbery,” he replies, in as close to a snap as he ever gets. “Please don’t do anything reckless,’ he adds, and she rolls her eyes.

Root and Reese are both in bad positions; there’ll be a good couple of seconds’ delay before they can join a fight. The room is awash in fear, mostly from the civilians but also some of the robbers - rookies, most likely.

Shaw closes her eyes for a moment, and pushes a thought out for Root to hear.

_Help me._

“Excuse me?” Shaw glances out from behind cover to see Root waving at the closest criminal.

“Shut up.” He stalks over and points his gun at her. John stares at Root like he’d never noticed her until now.

Root presses on. “Well it’s just, I’ve never been held up before. Is there something I’m supposed to do now?” She gives him a blinding smile.

Shaw uses the distraction to peek out over the top of the pot. She can hit most of the gang from here; the ones she can't should be covered by Reese. If they’re quick, they can take them all out before any civilians get hurt.

“I said shut up.” He cocks his gun. Root feels blissfully unconcerned, protected by her immortality and her ego. _Crap_.

Shaw leaps up and fires; three of the robbers drop screaming. Reese grand his weapon and kneecaps two more, still lying down. The rest of the gang yell and scatter. Root stands up fluidly and draws her guns, shooting after the retreating burglars and, _okay_ , she actually looks pretty good. Maybe dual-wielding has a place outside of low-budget action movies after all.

The number climbs to her feet, shaking, and Reese puts a gentle hand on her arm.

“Are you okay?! What happened?” Finch asks, in that agitated way that he usually does after a fight.

“We’re alright,” Reese rumbles. “Scared ‘em off.”

“While I can't say it was my preferred strategy, I’m glad to hear you're safe,” Finch says. The jab isn't lost on her, but it’s not worth doing anything about.

The number nods at Reese and beckons to Shaw.

“Alright,” Shaw groans to herself. She holsters her gun and goes over to them, Root trailing after her.

“I just wanted to say thank-”

“Don’t mention it.” The woman is an inch from bursting into grateful tears and that’s the last thing she wants to deal with right now. Through the crowd she spots the blue of a police hat, and she smiles with relief. “Time for us to go.”

“I thought the police getting here was a good thing?” Root asks as Shaw drags her towards the back exit.

“Unlike Reese, I don’t have a fistful of stolen law enforcement badges to explain why I have a gun. Or you.”

“All you have to do is ask,” he says, flashing one of them at a cop.

“That’s no fun.” She barges through a fire exit and out onto the dark streets.

“So who’s your friend?” Reese’s voice is tinny down the comms. “She’s a good shot.”

“Old ISA ally.” Shaw replies without missing a beat. “Listen, the place is crawling with cops and she’s all of sixty feet from the bus; can you see her off?”

“Bailing again, Shaw?” He sounds a bit concerned, and she hates it.

“Thought I’d save Carter the trouble is all.” She shuts off her comms before either he or Finch can argue.

Root falls into step beside her. “No more big plans for tonight?”

“Nope.” She leans out into the road to flag down a taxi.

“What does a rogue like you do after a long day at work? Go clean your guns?” As usual, she leans too heavily on the innuendo.

“Something like that,” Shaw says as a cab pulls up to the curb. She turns to Root. “This is as far as we go. You’ve seen my job. That was the deal.”

Root doesn’t seem - doesn't _feel -_ upset; as she steps closer, Shaw sees a rare look of contentment on her face. “Seal it with a kiss, Sam?”

“We both know I don’t have to.”

“Always worth asking.”

Shaw stares up at her, disarmed, then sighs.

“Sure.”

Root smiles as she leans down to kiss her. There’s nothing bruising and aggravated about this time, like there had been all those years ago; Shaw is firm but not angry in the way she presses herself against Root, and in return Root loosely winds a hand into her ponytail.

Shaw sinks deeper into it, like a fever, like that training exercise where Hersh had waterboarded her for six hours except this time she’d happily drown. Dimly, she knows that only part of those feelings are hers and they’re running dangerously close to a feedback loop, but the sharp dig of Root’s fingernails at her waist chases the thought away. Her hand slides up to Root’s throat and she presses her thumb against her pulse point; Root leans into it, permission written in the slant of her neck.

The taxi driver honks at her and, dredging up the last of her willpower, Shaw pulls away. Her hand lingers on Root’s collar for second before it drops to her side.

“Bye, Root,” she says, looking up into the depths of Root’s black eyes. There’s no hellfire or dark stirrings in them this time; instead, there’s only softness.

“Later,” Root answers.

Shaw ducks into the cab and shuts the door behind her with a thump. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Root wave to her before slinking away. She presses her cheek against the window and basks in the fading emotional glow as the taxi circles around towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schedule is "whenever life takes a break from grinding my face into the dirt", though there'll only be two more updates; I'll be dropping 7 and then 8/B/9 all at once for.... reasons. Can we get done for shoot week 2018? Probably not, but it's worth a try!


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... I don't have a good reason for taking six months to update. Chalk it up to hubris and burnout.

“You catch the game last night?” Fusco asks, peering through the windshield.

“Yup,” she replies, taking another photo of the back of the numbers head.  _ Desk facing away from the windows? This guy’s asking to get shot.  _

“The Mets got slaughtered, huh?”

Shaw snorts. “You need to pick a better team.”

He goes to argue, and then shakes his head. “Gimme a look at those photos, would ya?” She shrugs and hands over the camera. “I thought so: our guy looks a bit like Glasses from behind.”

She leans across to check and has to agree with him. They hadn't noticed it from the mugshot, but the guy holds himself in a pretty Finch-like way. 

“You guys get that? Watch your six,” she says, raising her voice to make sure the mic picks it up. 

“Yes, thank you both,” Finch says. “We’ve just finished looking into the bank, and it seems we’ll have to broaden our search; none of the staff have anything against him.”

“Well, he hasn’t moved in two hours,” she observes. “He’s a sitting duck at home.”

“At least staying in one place makes him easier to — ” a shot rings out and he chokes on the end of the sentence.

“Finch!” John yells, and a second shot follows it.

Fusco gapes for a moment, then fumbles for his phone. “Shots fired at 31st and 7th. Ambulance needed.”

“Shit, Finch?” she asks. Fusco’s doing his job; she tunes him out. There’s silence on the line. “Reese, tell us what’s happening.”

“Finch,” he says, his voice catching.

“What about the threat?” She shoves the door of the car open. 

“The hell are you going?” Fusco snaps as Reese says, “Got him.”

“Stay on the phone,” she tells Fusco, and takes off down the road. “Reese! Did the shot go right through?”

“I think so.” 

He’s either compartmentalising hard or going into shock.  _ Keep it simple _ . “Get out your wallet, take out two credit cards, put one over the entry wound and one over the exit wound. Tape ‘em down if you can.”

Reese rustles around. “Don’t have any tape.”

“They’ll still seal alright. Keep his head back, don’t move him.” The intersection is close -  _ fuck, suburban blocks are long _ \- she just has to reach it in time. She unsheathes her knife and slashes the side of her hand. An ambulance will take too long in the Manhattan traffic; they need Root.

She throws the knife. It spins and lands on the road, its blade smearing blood on the tarmac. Thirty seconds.  _ Too damn long _ .

“John? Sitrep.”

He mumbles a response that she can’t quite make out. Fusco cuts back in. “Bus is on its way, but the cops’ll be right behind it. You’d better get outta there.”

“No.”

“Fuck’s sake, John, go.” The last thing they need is him getting arrested, especially if Finch is out of the picture.  _ Her _ best plan for breaking him out of confinement involves more smoke grenades than she currently has stashed in the library. 

Root appears in the corner of her eye. Shaw turns to her and cuts her mic. “Harold Finch has been shot at 31st and 7th. Save him.”

A flicker of disappointment crosses her face. “That’s a big job.”  _ And no fun, _ the silent addition echoes in her head _.  _

“How much?”

“Five years off your life.”

Shaw doesn’t even blink. “Done. Go.” She’s always been at peace with the fact that she could die tomorrow; losing five years from whatever date she’s supposed to die doesn't change that. 

Root nods and vanishes. Sirens blare down the phone line.

“Where the hell did that come from?”

“Doesn’t matter,  _ run _ !” 

Faintly she can hear Root saying “Sir? Sir you need to let go of him, it’s fine, we’ve got him.” John makes an uncertain sound, followed by the scuffle of feet as he takes off running. She lets out the breath she’d been holding. 

 

The click of a pen echoes through the library as she walks up the stairs  — Reese must have made it back already. Sure enough, he’s sitting at Finch’s desk; on the board opposite, he’s scrawled  _ Family AM // Uncertainty RK // Reflections JO _ . He nods vaguely in her direction, still clicking the pen and drumming his fingers as he thinks.

“What’s this?” she asks, her planned rebuke suspended in favour of curiosity.

“Got it on the way back,” he says. “A payphone rang as I went past. I think it’s a new number.”

“Doesn’t look like a number to me. Did he encrypt them?” 

He throws her a cypher book. “Looks like it.”

She flips through it, searching for something that might match. Finch’s code is different to all the others she’s encountered; trust him to pick something niche. The heel of her boot taps against the floorboards, a staccato counterpoint to Reese’s pen. She growls and kicks her chair back, giving in to the need to  _ move _ ; Root seems equally frustrated, probably waiting on Harold, and her pacing back and forth falls into step with it.

“Maybe he decodes it using computer shit,” she snaps, tossing her book onto the table. 

The clicking stops. Reese is halfway out of his seat, frozen staring at the board. “Finch, you sly dog,” he says. 

“What?” Shaw asks, coming to a standstill, but he’s already run off into the library. There’s a crash and a shout; she almost goes to help, but decides that he can get himself out of whatever trouble he’s gotten into.

“It’s the Dewey Decimal system!” he hollers from deep among the shelves.

“He decodes them using the  _ library _ ?”  _ What a fucking nerd. _

Reese stumbles back into the room with a stack of books in his arms. He holds one up to show her the sticker on the spine. “Family AM.”

“So the Dewey Decimal numbers — ”

“ — Form the social security number,” John agrees, hurrying over to the board and writing the numbers underneath each phrase. He steps back to look at the complete number, and his head drops into his hands. “ _ Leon. _ ”

“Who’s Leon...?”

“Before your time. He’s the worst conman I’ve ever met. We’ve had his number before.” 

_ Sounds like a dumbass. At least there’ll be a good fight in it.  _ “Alright. I’ll go get him.”

He shakes his head. “I should do it. He'll recognise me.”

“No. Cops are still looking for a gunman in a suit. Can't afford you getting caught if shit goes sideways. Besides, you’re better with tech than me; this’ll need someone who can type with more than two fingers.” 

He gets up and grabs a laptop from a shelf. “Main system is locked down,” he says as he boots it up, and she nods; that’s about the level of paranoid she’d expect from Finch. 

“How much should I arm up? Leon sounds like the kind of guy to get in deep shit.”

“He just tends to end up on the wrong end of gangs.” He shrugs, and adds, “Maybe take a flashbang?”

 

“It’s in 100 feet, on the right.”

“Got it,” she says, squinting along the line of storefronts. Leon is holed up in a bar (unsurprising, from what Reese has told her) which should make it a simple extraction. The thrumming agitation from the library has faded at last  —  Finch must be out of surgery. Root hasn’t vanished with it, though; god only knows what she’s up to now.

There’s a space open in front of the bar, perfect for a quick escape. She parks, cuts the engine and climbs out, drawing her gun as she goes. 

A sign on the door says ‘closed’, but she pushes it open anyway. The inside is dim and silent. She ventures in further, listening intently for signs of life. 

There’s a whimper from one of the booths near the back. She rounds one of the tables and looks into it. A large man sits in it, leaning back; when he sees her, he springs to his feet.

“It says  _ closed _ ,” he spits, advancing on her. Behind him, she catches sight of Leon; he’s slumped in the seat, his suit stained with blood. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and bruises shadow all the way down the same side of his face. God, if they’d only cracked Finch’s cypher sooner, they could’ve  _ oh fuck knife _ .

Her arm reflexively comes up to block. It catches the slash aimed for her face, scoring a white-hot line into her flesh. The hairs on the back of her neck pickle and she flings herself sideways as Root charges in through the door behind her, guns in her hands and murder on her face. Her first shot hits him in the shoulder, and he drops the knife with a yelp. He clutches at his arm and makes a break for the back exit. She raises her gun, aiming for the back of his head.

“Root, don’t.” 

She hesitates, then holsters her gun. The next moment she’s crouched at Shaw’s side, reaching for her arm like she’s a wounded animal.

“Back off,” Shaw snaps. She picks herself up, grabs a dishcloth from the bar and presses it to her cut. 

Leon shrinks back as she approaches him. “Are - are you with John? Please tell me you’re with John,” he says. “I didn’t think those guys would actually come after me! I mean, I was pretending to be a  _ robot _ and they’re in  _ New Zealand _ _ — _ ”

“John’s on vacation.” She swaps her pistol to her injured hand, pulls the envelope out of her coat and tosses it to him; he catches it clumsily. Terror runs off him, but her rage burns through it. She crouches down and looks him in the remaining eye. “And if I have to save your sorry ass again, I’ll shoot you myself,” she says, poking him in the chest with the gun. 

His eye goes wide; he scrambles sideways and staggers to his feet, looking from her to Root before running out the back.

“You might’ve overdone it,” John says.

“Well you haven’t scared him straight yet,” Shaw replies. “Problem solved.” She hangs up and stalks behind the bar, grabbing a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. It stings when she pours it over the cut, and she can feel the grimace and disapproval that Root holds back.

“Find me a first aid kit?” As much as Root deserves the irritation, she does need something to close the wound with.

Root snaps her fingers and grabs one out of thin air. Glaring, Shaw takes it from her and searches around for the suture thread. Her hands shake as she tries to thread the needle; she pauses and takes a moment to breathe, to sort through the feelings coursing through her. 

She’s pissed off, that’s for sure. That’s all her  — Root is having a lot of feelings, mostly…  worry and confusion? But she’s not mad. It doesn’t just feel like anger, though; it’s not the same emotional blowtorch that drove her to rescue Gen, but polluted with something else, something that makes her teeth grind together. This whole mess is because of the shot of empathy that Root gives her, and the fact that she can’t control it is infuriating  — no, it’s  _ frustrating _ . 

Finally, she gets the thread through the eye of the needle. Root lets out a small pained noise when she makes her first stitch, and she snorts in response.

“Forgotten how pain feels?”

“Up until very recently,” Root murmurs. 

She scowls and keeps stitching. It should be automatic, thoughtless, the prick of the needle, the tug of the thread; she’s sutured wounds in war zones and yet somehow this is harder.  

“Why did you stay?” she asks as she ties it off.

“I was hoping to see you later. Maybe hang out.”

Shaw takes a swig of whiskey. “Never wanted to before.”

“I didn’t know when I was going to see you again.” She comes closer, and Shaw tenses up. “And then you were in pain and  — ”

“I had it handled. He wouldn’t’ve landed the cut if I hadn’t — _fuck_.” She doesn’t know how to explain, and settles for gesturing to the wound. “This is _your fault_.”

Root stares at her, wide-eyed and lost for words. “Tell me how I can help.”

“Just  — just  _ go _ .”

She swallows, nods, and walks out. Shaw leans on the bartop; her elbows buckle when Root disappears, exhaustion flowing in where her feelings had been. She grabs a glass and pours some more whiskey into it. _What a fucking mess_ — and she didn't even get to use the damn flashbang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things:
> 
> Leon's scam is a real hoax that's currently happening in the NZ medical sector, and it's exactly as weird as it sounds. [Check it out here!](https://thespinoff.co.nz/the-best-of/06-03-2018/the-mystery-of-zach-new-zealands-all-too-miraculous-medical-ai/)
> 
> I'm going to be updating the rest of the thing all at once, so it'll be a while (though y'all should be used to that by now). I would say "summer is here so I should be able to get it done" but last time I did that I got kicked out of my house, so let's maybe not jinx it. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> As always, if you want that sweet bonus content or to come yell at me to update, I am [ findable on tumblr](https://canadianwheatpirates.tumblr.com/tagged/crau)


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